The Only Exceptions
by significationary
Summary: Because of Finchel, other Glee club members got pushed aside. Here's what happened off camera. Focusing on Puck, Quinn, Santana, and Sam. Show universe, Fabrevans, Quick. Samtana, Brittana, and a hint of Puckleberry.
1. PUCK September, 2006

Being a badass isn't as easy as it might seem. I mean, yeah, life's pretty awesome when everyone's too scared to tell me no, with the ladies falling at my feet left and right, but those type of things don't just happen. I had to earn my title, and the road there totally sucked.

It all started back when I was born. My dad was a rock star – that's all Ma would tell me, and it was kind of all I needed to know. It meant I was destined for a life of straight-up rocking, so that's what I did. I was Lima's only six-year-old badass. Everybody was scared of me, even the parents, so while I had a killer reputation right from the start, I also had a less-than-impressive line of kids lining up to chill.

Then I met Finn.

He was the kid on the playground who was awkward and gangly, taller than everyone else, and still trying to figure out how to use his yard-long arms. One day, he decided to give peace-keeping a try. I'd gotten into another fight with a kid two years older than me, and Frankenteen took it upon himself to separate us. He wrapped me up in his long, noodle arms, and let me flail and land about seventeen punches on him. It didn't matter what I did, he wouldn't let go of me.

I guess that should've been a warning to me for how the rest of our friendship would go. I'd screw up in some terrible way – like almost getting him arrested in fifth grade, for example – and that would piss him off, but he'd reach out and latch onto me. No matter what I did to him, he'd never let me go, even if I bit the metaphorical shit out of him.

At first, this annoyed the hell out of me. Sometimes I just wanted to be left alone, but Finn could never get that through his fat head. Later, I got used to it.

I don't know if I can pinpoint the exact time that I stopped seeing him as my semi-obnoxious sidekick and started feeling the "best friend" thing he kept talking about. If I had to guess, though, I'd go with the second week of 8th grade. I don't have a good memory, but that one's pretty much cemented in my mind.

See, Ma had gotten a new man in her life a little before then. Dave. He was a class A asshole – I could tell from the moment he walked in the door. But for some reason, Ma went head over heels for him. She went head over heels for a lot of assholes. My guess was they liked her because she was desperate. She could never stand being alone, so she'd go for the first shmuck who would look at her twice. She could deny anything bad about them after she latched on – it was almost a superpower. So when Dave moved in a couple days after they met, and then a couple days after that decided it would be fun to use me as his personal punching bag, Ma didn't see a thing.

Every night, Dave would get home, slam down a couple beers, and start watching whatever sport was on TV. If I put one foot in the same room as him, he'd take it as his chance to see if he was too drunk to hit a kid. He never was.

I let him do whatever he wanted at first. Somewhere, it made sense in my fourteen year old brain that I should protect her or something. I thought she didn't have a choice. I hadn't learned yet that she'd kick them out the moment they touched her. Then, one day, during that second week of 8th grade, Dave got drunker than usual, hit harder than usual, and cracked something in my chest.

I went up to my room afterwards, like I did every time, and tried to clean myself up so nobody would be able to tell anything happened the next day. But this time was different. I couldn't breathe without feeling like someone was stabbing me in the side, and when I tried to wash off in the shower, I almost passed out.

I panicked – I thought I was going to die or something. Ma wouldn't be any help with this. She'd just tell me to suck it up, or if I said anything bad about Dave, she'd ignore me altogether. The only thing I could think of doing was getting out of there, so that's what I did. I got dressed and slid out the window, landed on all fours, and had to stay there for a second to catch my breath. Then I pulled myself up and just started walking. I didn't really have any idea about where to go, just _away_. I guess my subconscious brain knew, though, because I found myself in front of Finn's house. I hesitated, then knocked before I could change my mind.

Finn's mom answered the door, wearing sweats and a really confused expression. "Noah, are you alright? What's going on?" she asked, frowning and folding her arms over her chest.

"Um." My infamous charm hadn't developed yet.

"Why don't you come inside," she said after a second.

"Okay."

"Did you walk here? Where's your mother?" she asked, closing the door behind me. I followed her into the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table across from her.

"Yeah. Ma's at home," I told her.

"Okay. Does she know you're here?"

"No."

Mrs. Hudson looked at me for a second. "Noah, are you alright?" she asked me again, quieter.

"No."

"Can I help?" She sounded so nice, I couldn't lie to her.

So I said, "I don't know."

"Try me."

I didn't know until she said it, but that was why I came here; I wanted somebody to be my mom, to take care of me and let me be a kid. I wanted to tell her, really bad, but I didn't know how to say it, even with her looking at me so worried.

So I showed her. I unzipped my hoodie and took it off, wincing, then pulled off my shirt and sat there. I couldn't look at her, but I could feel her looking at me.

"How did this happen?" she asked me seriously.

"Ma's got a new boyfriend," I said, hoping I wouldn't have to explain more.

She seemed to get it. "Oh, honey," she said gently. I glanced up at her – her eyes were sad. "Does this happen a lot?"

"No, I can handle it. Except I don't know what to do this time." I hated admitting that. I hoped she wouldn't tell anyone, especially Finn.

"Why, what changed?" she asked.

"I think I've got a broken rib or something."

"Oh my gosh. Okay. Come on." She lead me to the bathroom, sat me on the side of the tub, and started gathering stuff. "Why do you think it's broken?" she asked over her shoulder.

"I heard it crack."

Her hands stopped moving for a second – she almost dropped a bottle of rubbing alcohol, but didn't. "Okay." She turned to me. "Which one, where the big bruise is?" she asked, kneeling in front of me.

"Yeah. Am I going to die?" I asked cautiously.

"No, no, you'll be fine. How badly does it hurt?"

"Really bad. I almost passed out in the shower."

Mrs. Hudson tried to smile, I guess to make me feel better, but she couldn't. "Can I…" She motioned towards my chest.

"Oh, yeah, do whatever." So she moved my arm and touched my side. I took a deep breath, squeezing my eyes shut. It hurt so bad I saw red. "Yeah, that's it," I said abruptly. "So what do I do?"

"Take these." She gave me three pills, and I swallowed them without asking. I didn't really care, as long as it would make me stop hurting. I grit my teeth and let her feel the rib to see how bad it was. "Good news is, I think your rib is actually just cracked. It should heal mostly on its own, but I'll wrap it, like this." She used bandages to wrap up my chest like a mummy, and it did feel better than before.

"Thanks," I said as she cleaned up the bathroom.

"Of course, dear." She hesitated. "You know, I can't pretend this isn't wrong."

"What isn't?"

"You being hurt so badly. It's illegal. I should report him."

"No, don't, please," I said frantically. "Ma's happy, and I'm fine. He'll be gone in a couple months." They always went after a couple months, once they got bored. I couldn't believe how stupid I'd been. Of course she'd want to call the cops. I should've seen it coming. "Look, thanks, but I'll go now, and you won't call anybody, and everything will be fine, okay?"

"I have to do _something_, Noah," she said.

"No, you don't, no. I'll be fine, Mrs. H," I told her, putting on my shirt. "I feel great, actually. And I'll deny it if you tell somebody."

Mrs. H sighed, and I knew she was wavering. "Do you promise me it's only for a few months?" she asked sternly.

"Yeah, swear to God," I said with my best innocent face.

"Fine," she sighed. "And if anything else happens to you like this, you tell me, okay? Come over any time, and I'll take care of you. I was a nurse for a while."

I nodded, but didn't say anything. I felt weird, like I would explode.

"Do you want to stay here tonight?"

I sure as hell did, but I never though she'd offer. I nodded again, and then I accidentally almost cried. She saw it, and she hugged me. "Finn's got a second mattress in his room," she said as she let go. "Come on."

I followed her upstairs to Finn's bedroom. She opened the door and went in, but I stayed in the doorway. I watched her wake him up, heard her murmur, "Baby, wake up. Puck's here."

"What? Why?" Finn asked sleepily.

"We'll talk tomorrow, okay? Just get the mattress out for him, he's gonna sleep here tonight."

"Sure, Mom." Mrs. Hudson left, putting her hand on my shoulder for a second as she walked by. Finn turned on a light and sat up, squinting. "Hey Puck," he said like nothing was wrong.

"Hey. Sorry your mom woke you up, I could've done this," I said, watching him pull a mattress out from under his bed. Actually, I wasn't so sure I could've – any sort of heavy lifting made my side hurt just thinking about it.

"No, it's fine. What's going on?" he asked me, tossing a pillow onto the mattress. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. We'll talk later, sleep now." I lay down on the mattress and closed my eyes.

"Do you want blankets?" Finn said slowly.

I opened my eyes and there he was, looming over me like a giant. "Nah."

"Okay." He got back in bed and turned out the light. "I'm here if you need something, man," he said after a second.

I stared straight ahead, looking at the ceiling of his bedroom. "You don't need to say that."

"What?" He sounded all hurt.

"You're here right now, aren't you?"

There was a pause. "Night, Puck," he finally said.

"Night."

How the hell could I not consider him my best friend after that? So yeah, we were best friends after that. I was right – Dave was gone in a few months, but then he came back. It was almost a seasonal thing. And no matter how many times I showed up on the Hudson's doorstep at weird times, the two of them would take care of me. I never did get around to explaining the entire situation to Finn, and he never asked again. In his mind, I'm pretty sure it didn't matter. We were best friends. He'd do whatever I needed. And although that made him ridiculously stupid and naïve sometimes, it also made him pretty much the best best friend ever.

Unfortunately, by comparison, that made me an even worse friend than I already was. But I guess that's just my burden to bear – along with being sexy, young, talented, charming, and – oh yeah – a complete BADASS.

**Author's Note: Hey kids! Here's how this is going to go. I'm doing 4 alternating P.O.V's: Santana, Quinn, Sam, and Puck, focusing on their relationships with each other and other Glee members. The story ships Samtana, Quick, Fabrevans, a hint of Puckleberry, and eventual Brittana at various points. Just to get the chronology straight, I'm gonna specify a few things. I'll buy the whole "Lucy" thing with Quinn, except for the name change. I think her parents would always call her Lucy if that was her given name, regardless of whether or not she changed it. So, her name was always Quinn, but she did the whole makeover thing between 8****th**** and 9****th**** grade. I'm going to mostly stick with the canon story lines, but only through the first part of season 3. After that, I'm going to take their stories in my own directions, close to the canon ones, but not exactly the same. **

**I'm going to do my best to update once a week, probably on the weekend. This is a long-term thing, so be prepared! Reviews welcomed, even not positive ones. **

**DFTBA!**


	2. SANTANA June, 2007

**Author's Note: Bonus chapter for the leap day! Not too long, just a scene I think is important to develop Santana and Puck's characters. **

I know about the reputation cheerleaders have in every TV show or movie ever made. We're all supposed to be bitchy sluts; that's supposed to be our thing. While part of me is really pissed that I fall so neatly into the category of Token Ethnic Bitch, an equally large part of me doesn't give a single shit. I'll fulfill whatever stereotypes I damn well please.

Hands down, the one I enjoy most would have to be the school slut part. Granted, Brittany has had that role pretty much under control since the day we came to McKinley, but I did my fair share of whoring around, too. It wasn't that the sex was amazing – usually it wasn't – but I loved the power it gave me; over the boys, over their girlfriends, everybody. It was such a rush. And it all started with Puck.

The summer before we started high school, we ended up at the same party. It was a birthday thing for one of the football players, I think. The details are unimportant, so they're a little fuzzy in my memory. I just remember it was fun, but a little awkward, too. We'd all known each other practically since we were born, but then, there were these things called hormones. That was a huge discovery – it made everybody feel weird around the other gender. All the girls started to dig their little teenaged claws into a boy, and while I didn't particularly feel the same way or understand why this was happening, I did too. Even at my tender young age, I could tell this was going to be important, so I went for the biggest prize: Puckerman.

During the party, I bravely went and sat directly on his lap after we all had birthday cake on plates handed to us. "Hey there," I said casually. My attitude was already developing.

"Hey," he said, looking mildly surprised. Puck wasn't bothering with a fork – he took a bite straight out of his piece. "What's up?" he asked, mouth full.

"Number one, ew. Shut your mouth." I glared at him sternly, waiting for him to obey before I continued. "Number two, I have a suggestion."

"Yeah? Lemme hear it," he said curiously.

"You're hot. I'm hot. Let's kiss," I said. The only way to get a leg up on the other girls was to do what they did, except faster, better, and with hotter boys.

Puck shrugged. "Okay." He leaned forward, turned me around a little, and kissed me straight on the lips. My first kiss tasted like frosting and chocolate.

Sure, I talked a big game, but this was my real first. I'd never done much more than a peck on the cheek, and this? This was completely different. Puck was clearly experienced. He knew what to do with his lips, and then with his tongue, and then he turned me around so I was kneeling in his lap, holding on to his face as I figured out how to do this kissing thing right.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, kids. Break it up." A mom broke the two of us up, smiling fondly at us. I could practically hear her thinking something about kids these days.

"You're good," Puck said, taking another bite out of his cake. He sounded calm, but definitely impressed.

"So are you," I answered, like I knew what I was talking about. Really, though, I was less concerned with his opinion and more concerned with everyone else's. the other girls in the room were looking at me with a bit of disgust, but mostly anger, because they hadn't had the balls to do the same. I was pretty sure that put me firmly at the top of the popularity pyramid, exactly where I belonged.

The next part of that day I remember is after the party. Puck came up behind me and put his arm over my shoulders. "Hey. Wanna come by my house?" he asked.

"Sure," I decided after a second. I liked him. He was strong and cute, and his reputation was just what I needed. I was young, but I wasn't stupid; I knew what might happen if I went anywhere alone with him, and I wasn't completely opposed to it. I mean, I was going to do it some time. It might as well be right then, with a boy that I actually kind of could like.

So we went back to his house, because it was empty. It smelled like cigarette smoke and pizza, even though I couldn't see either of those things. I wasn't a snob or anything, but I can remember thinking his house was kind of a falling-apart mess. Puck's room was more together, and it was mostly clean-ish. I looked at his bed, trying not to be obvious about it, but I wanted to know what I might be getting myself into. It was mostly made; clean, at least. I sat on the edge, and Puck sat next to me. "Wanna make out some more?" he suggested.

"Sure," I shrugged, so we did. Pretty soon, we were lying down, him half on top of me. He was slow and sweet about the whole thing, which surprised me. There I was, expecting a cocky bastard and he turned into a sweetheart. It was weird. But I let him talk me into going further and further, and then all the way.

Personally, I thought the whole thing was kind of weird and overrated, and I told him that afterwards. "Thanks for that slightly lackluster and generally disgusting experience. Is this what everyone gets so excited about?"

Puck didn't understand my reaction; he frowned at me. "Are you serious?"

"Yep. You seemed to be happy, though, so that's a good thing, I guess." I sat up, adjusted my clothes, and tightened my ponytail. "So am I supposed to think that you're good at that?"

"Well, yeah. But wait, didn't you like it, even a little?" He couldn't seem to grasp that simple concept. Then again, Puck was never a genius.

"No. Why?" I said indifferently.

He sat up, and I reluctantly admired his muscles. "Then why'd you do it? I would've stopped if you said something. Oh my God, did I make you have sex with me?" he asked, horrified.

"Nope. Don't worry about it, Puckerman. It's over now, and I'm not a virgin anymore, so that's done and over with."

"Wait, what?" he demanded in disbelief.

"You heard me," I sniffed.

"Santana. That's supposed to be like a special thing. Why didn't you tell me that? Oh my GOD." He fell back on the bed and shut his eyes. "Do we like, have to get married now?"

"No. Dude, what's your problem? It's not a big deal." To me, it wasn't. It was the first time I had sex, no big deal. No matter when I did it or who I did it with, it would never be magical or anything but awkward and kind of gross. That's exactly what it was, so as far as I was concerned, I was par for the course.

"Yeah it is, it's a big deal," he insisted.

It was beginning to get obnoxious, how nice he was acting. "No. It's not. So can you stop it?" For some reason, my adolescent feelings were getting hurt by him, and I wasn't quite sure why, so I went bitchy.

Puck wasn't thrown by that, though, he just got nicer. "Okay, sure, I'll stop. Can you please just explain why you just had me unknowingly take your virginity? I think I had the right to know."

"Why? It's my business, Puck. It shouldn't have changed how you acted. Did it?" I asked, suddenly curious.

"No. Kind of. I don't know. Do we have to talk about that? Let's not," he said, suddenly uncomfortable.

"If you make me uncomfortable, I get to do the same," I told him.

"Fine. So why did you just sleep with me? Do you love me?"

"Not even a little," I said decidedly.

"Do you think I'm hot?"

"Sometimes. Not when you're being all emotional."

"Then I don't get it," he finally admitted.

"You don't have to. Just tell everybody we did it, and that I was good at it, alright?" I stood to go.

"Was that it? You did this for the popularity? That's what it was, wasn't it."

In the heartbeat after he said that, I immediately took back everything I ever though about him being stupid. "Maybe," was all I said out loud.

"Hell, that's not worth it, Santana," he said, sounding very wise.

But I didn't like him being wiser than me, so I lashed out. "You're one to talk. You do everything to make sure your stupid badass reputation stays where it is. Don't lecture me."

"I'm not!" His voice got high-pitched and defensive.

"You've slept with half the girls in McKinley without stepping foot in the place. Stop giving me a speech about priorities," I said in a no-nonsense tone.

"So what, do you want pointers on how to get your own streak going?" he asked half-heartedly.

I wasn't sure if he was asking me seriously or not, but impulsively, I said, "Sure."

Puck looked surprised, but then he grinned. "Well for starters, I've found practice makes perfect."

"Not a chance," I said immediately. "I need to recover from the trauma."

"Alright, fine. So should I like, take you out for lunch or something?"

"If you want."

"But is that the expected thing to do?"

"How would I know?"

He sighed. "Right."

"Wait. Why don't you know?" I asked suspiciously. "Shouldn't you have that figured out by now?"

"No. I usually have sex with older women. They're hotter. And they know what they're doing."

"Gross," I glared.

"Sorry. You asked."

I had, in fact, asked; that was hard to deny. Instead of admitting it, I changed the subject. "So am I getting lunch or what?"

Puck smiled, and I felt deep inside that I'd made the right choice when I let him be my first. "Sure." He stood up and put on his shirt and pants. "Just a warning – I don't pay. Can you run fast on a full stomach?" Comfortably, he put his arm over my shoulders and walked outside with me.

I don't exactly remember us being at Breadstix or what we ate, though I know we did. I just remember being convinced he was the most gross, disgusting, wonderful, nice boy in my grade or maybe the world.


	3. QUINN August, 2007

Every adult who meets me always says one of a few things. They either tell me how beautiful I am, or they tell me how proud my parents must be of me. Two very nice complements that any girl should be happy to hear. And I do like hearing them, but not for the same reasons as most other girls. I'm sure they like to hear it as some kind of self-validation or something. I'm just relieved because someone saying that means the elaborate mask that is Quinn Fabray has fooled one more person.

I don't know why I still get worried every time, why that knot twists its way into my stomach for each new person my parents introduce me to. It just happens, and I have to remind myself to breathe deeply, smile sweetly, and pull through. No one ever sees through me, even those who are supposedly close to me. Not one of the boys I've dated throughout high school ever noticed anything out of line with my perfect façade. All I can conclude from that is either I'm very good at acting, or they're all very stupid. It's probably the second one.

Except for Puck.

The first time I saw him, I knew there was something different about him. He was angrier than all the other boys in my new school, but he wasn't ever as cruel. And he looked at me in a way that no one else ever had. At first, I thought it was disgust – his face would twitch, and he couldn't ever look at me for very long. Although I could understand why someone would be disgusted with me, if they knew me, he knew nothing. I was a new student at McKinley, an enigma, and I liked it that way. What I definitely did not like, however, was how he looked at me.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. Even though I knew it was creepy and wrong, I followed him home one day after school. A stalker move, I know, but I had to solve this, before it damaged my fragile status. I'd switched schools to be popular, and I wasn't going to let some punk with a mohawk and big muscles screw things up for me.

"Noah Puckerman," I called out when he turned onto a driveway.

"It's PUCK," he shouted emphatically before turning around. Then he did turn around, and he made that face. "Did you follow me home?"

I didn't answer that. "Do you know who I am?"

"Sure. The new chick, your name is... something with a Q in it. Why are you standing in front of my house?" he asked, walking back towards me and stopping a few feet away. Uncomfortably, he scratched the edge of his mohawk.

"I need to ask you something," I began, then stopped, because I didn't know how to continue.

"You wanna make out?" he suggested.

I stared at him, horrified. "No. I want to know why you don't like me." The statement came out more blunt than I meant it to, but I got the message across.

Puck looked confused. "I don't not like you," he said. "I don't even know you. We haven't even talked, like, ever. And why do you care, anyways?"

"I don't," I said defensively, then corrected myself. "I mean, I don't like having people assume things about me that aren't true. That's all."

"Calm down, Q, and tell me the truth. What, do you want to be on my good side or something? Is this because I'm Finn's best friend? You play nice with me and get him, is that it?" he said patiently. He didn't sound upset at all, just friendly.

I had to think for a second to figure out who he was talking about; Finn Hudson, JV quarterback, well on his way to being a varsity starter next year. He was cute, athletic, and he'd be a good way to get a leg up in the social pyramid. "No," I said. "It's not because that. I just want to know. Why don't you like me?" I repeated.

Puck looked at me, glancing up from underneath those dark eyelashes he had, and suddenly, I felt frighteningly vulnerable. It was like he could really see me for a second, everything about me, and he didn't look disgusted anymore. "I told you, I don't know you," he said flatly.

I kind of lost it. "Then why do you look at me all the time like you're grossed out by me, or like you're sorry for me or something?" I demanded, slightly hysterical. To my annoyance, I found my eyes were welling up with tears. "You said yourself, you don't know me. Why do you look at me like that?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down," Puck said, half-amused, half-concerned. He took a step closer. "I don't know what you're talking about. Before five minutes ago, the only thing I thought about you was that you're the new hottest girl at McKinley, and I was glad you transferred. Okay?"

"Oh." I blushed, embarrassed and flattered. I expected to feel the familiar relief that usually accompanied a statement like that, relief that I'd tricked him, too, but I didn't. I almost felt hollow.

"Yeah. But why does that matter to you?" he asked, slinging his backpack down onto the sidewalk so he could cross his arms and look at me thoughtfully.

People had told me he was all looks and no brain, but the way he was looking at me anything but stupid. "It doesn't," I tried to claim.

He just smiled a little at me knowingly. "I think it pretty obviously does."

I shouldn't have come here – I knew that in my gut. I should've let him look at me however he wanted and ignored him. Why couldn't I just ignore him? Then I wouldn't have had to answer the question. "Well, I just..." I trailed off, because he was looking at me in that same amused way. "Why are you smiling?" I glared.

"I'm not." His smile grew, and he looked so adorable it was heartbreaking. I couldn't look at him anymore – he was so beautiful and sweet, and I didn't deserve to be near him, to have him worried about me. Like he said, he didn't even know me.

"It doesn't matter, forget it." I shook my head, backing away from him. "Thanks. I'll go now."

"No, wait, Q-" he started to say, reaching out for me.

I shook my head again, harder. "I have to go."

"I don't know what I said, but I didn't mean it," he said, slightly panicked. "Just don't cry, okay?"

"I'm not going to." But I was. How did he know?

"Quinn." He gives me a look. "Don't bullshit me, okay? I've seen how you look at everybody. You're terrified someone's gonna figure you out, you're scared every minute you're in that place. So I don't understand why you followed me home. I'm the most badass guy at that place. I'm a monster," he growled, eyes flashing mischievously.

"I hate to break it to you, but I'm not scared of you. I think you're actually a nice person," I said, trying to smile so he'd think I was okay. Really, I was anything but – he'd done it. He'd seen past who I pretended to be and he really did see me. That truly was terrifying, and I didn't know what to do. So I tried to distract him, but it didn't work.

"Okay," he shrugged, but just because he didn't want to fight, not because he believed me. "Whatever you say, Q, I'm not going to argue. So are you done stalking me?"

"I'm not sure." I needed to figure out how to handle this. I needed time.

"Okay, well, you wanna come inside?" he suggested after a second, looking almost shy.

"Sure," I heard myself saying, even though I needed to get home. Although I knew Dad would be expecting me home, and that I shouldn't go into the house of a boy I barely knew, I really wanted to. Like I said, I wasn't scared of him, and I knew I should be; he'd seen past my mask. He was so strangely magnetic, almost. Maybe it was his green eyes, or his mohawk, or just now nice he was to me. Nobody had ever treated me like that before, so kind and understanding. I knew he was different, and he really was. I had to figure out why before he ruined my perfect cover, and before he made me want to like him any more.

Puck smiled happily, and for a second, I didn't regret anything. I'd do anything to see him smile like that at me forever, to tell him everything bad about me and see that smile anyways. I knew that would never happen, though, so I pushed away those thoughts. "Alright," he said, "then come on in. We've got a bunch of pop, I think, if you want some."

"Oh, okay." He picked up his backpack and hoisted it back over his shoulder. "Come on, Q," he said, throwing his arm over my shoulder. I could barely keep from wincing away – I didn't like people touching me, but I'd let him.

"Why are you calling me that? Can't remember my name?" I asked to distract him and me from how I jumped.

"It's just so normal, I mean, there's a million girls with your name. What is it, even, like... I can't think of another Q name," he admitted after a second. "So maybe it isn't normal. But all the cool people have single letter names. Like P Diddy, for example, though I'm not sure if that's still his name." Puck smoothly moved on to another subject with no transition. "So you're not one of those girls who only drinks diet everything, are you? Cuz we don't have any diet anything. Mom doesn't get any diet."

That was exactly the type of girl I was. "Oh. No." I shook my head.

"Oh, good, so would you want..." He didn't finish his sentence, and at first, I thought he just got distracted. But then I glanced at him, and I saw he was looking at a pickup truck driving towards us. His arm tightened on my shoulder and his face got rigid when the truck pulled into his driveway. "Um, you need to go," he said to me, abruptly dropping his arm to his side.

"What?" I frowned, caught off-guard by the sudden change in his manner. "Why?"

"It's hard to explain. Please, go," he said, practically begging.

"No. Tell me what's going on, Puck," I glared at him. I thought we'd connected, that we were friends by some strange twist of circumstances. But here he was, practically pushing me away from him, refusing to look me in the eyes. All of his attention was on the man getting out of the car.

"My ma's boyfriend is home, I gotta... look, leave now and I'll do whatever you want. I'll come by your house later tonight. I promise, alright? Go," he ordered, and looked directly into my eyes for a second, making my knees go weak.

"Okay," I nodded. In that moment, I had no idea what else I could do. So I went, turned and walked away quickly. I only looked back once, at the end of the street before I turned the corner. I saw Puck talking to the man from the truck, looking oddly small.

The walk home took almost an hour. A third of that was spent walking up my driveway. By the time I climbed my front steps, I was hot, my hair limp and damp, and my face burning up. But I didn't care. The walk had given me the time to get my story straight.

"Where have you been?" Mom asked the moment I stepped inside.

I was prepared. "I had to talk to Coach Sylvester, and I missed the bus. So I walked." I said it so calmly I impressed myself. Mom was fooled – she nodded, taking a sip from her wine glass.

"Did you have a nice day?" she asked absently.

I thought about the day; how hard it had been to act perfect for eight straight hours, the homework I had. And then I thought about Puck's green eyes, the way he'd looked at me, his promise to visit. "Yeah, I did," I told her, and went to my room.

I stayed there all afternoon and evening, doing my homework, writing each line slowly and precisely. I came out at six for dinner with my parents. Dinner was a non-negotiable. As soon as I could, though, I excused myself from the table and retreated to my room again. The less time I spent around them, the better. Mom was never fully conscious – the only constant thing about her throughout my childhood was the glass in her hand. Dad was a whole other story that I did my best to forget. Whenever I had to be in that house, I spent all my time in my room. The rest of the house felt chillingly like a coffin.

The whole night, my heart kept hitching up in my chest at the littlest noise. I tried to tell myself I wasn't anxiously waiting for Puck to somehow appear in the room with me. I tried to tell myself it was just nighttime jitters. I was always jumpy at night. But this was a different type of jumpy, a happy type. Not scared, like usual.

At eleven sharp, I got ready for bed. At eleven fifteen, the lights went out, just like every night. But I didn't fall asleep. I waited up, listening as hard as I could for some hint as to where Puck would be coming from. Each time the house creaked, I scanned the room for him again. Then, I heard the door handle turn, and I froze. Adrenaline surged through me, and everything in the room was sharply in focus.

It wasn't Puck. It was my father, smelling like that stupid gin he always drank. I closed my eyes, but I could hear his breathing, and his footsteps, heavy on the carpet. During the eternity while he was walking towards me, I tired to convince myself that this wasn't going to happen, not tonight, not with Puck due to show up at any moment.

It was happening, though. He came and sat on my bed. "Stand up," he said softly.

I would have pretended to be asleep, but I knew it wouldn't help. Slowly, I pushed back my blankets and sat up, then stood. Nervously, I tucked my hair back behind my ear. "Daddy," I said, even though I knew it would do nothing. "Daddy. Don't."

"In front of me," was all he said. So I walked around the bed, trying not to make a single sound as I walked, because maybe if I didn't make noise, it wouldn't be real. I stood in front of him silently, waiting for the inevitable and trying not to think of it. I counted my toes over and over again. I counted them twenty three times before he talked.

"You weren't talking to Coach Sylvester."

My stomach jumped into my throat, but I knew it was just my guilty conscience talking. He didn't really know. He was just being paranoid, as usual. I didn't admit to anything. "Yes, Daddy, I was," I tried to say, but he didn't care, of course. It never mattered if I'd actually done what he said I did.

"You lied. You always lie," he muttered. "All we ask is that you be a good daughter. Why can't you be good, like your sister? Why can't you be good enough? Why is that so damn hard?"

He paused after that question, so I guessed I was supposed to answer. I didn't how I could talk right now – every word he said felt like a bullet to my chest. I couldn't breathe. But I responded, somehow. "I-I don't know, Dad. I try."

"No, your sister tries. You don't. You do the least you can. You're lazy. And you need to be punished."

"No, Daddy," I whispered, but it was no use. I heard his belt buckle clink and the leather swish against the fabric of his pants as he pulled it off. I knew how the routine went: he'd make me kneel by the bed, lean over it, and he'd pull up the back of my shirt and try to beat me into being the kind of daughter he wanted.

I couldn't do that. Not tonight. I couldn't let it happen, because Puck could walk in at any second, and I couldn't imagine what would happen if Puck saw. "No," I said more forcefully, and I backed away from him. "Dad, I didn't do anything, please. Don't do that now."

"Don't talk to me like that," he said, getting angry. "Don't _talk_ to me like that," he repeated, and he stood up, walked towards me. I'd never been more scared in my life. I thought I'd be sick, but I stood there, completely still, and watched him get close and closer to me. I looked at his silhouette, saw the black shape of him getting bigger and bigger, and I didn't flinch, not even when he grabbed my wrist, and hissed in my face, "Do you hear me?"

"Yes." I couldn't stop my voice from shaking, or the rest of me. That was for the better, I guess – he liked it when I was scared, when I cried. He said it meant I understood what I did. "Yes, I hear you, and I'm sorry, okay? Can you leave, please? I need to get some sleep."

I knew his fist would come up, but it still caught me off-guard when I felt it deep in my stomach. He got in a couple more poorly-aimed shots to my torso, slapped me across the face, and stumbled out, mumbling about how grateful I should've been.

As soon as the door closed, I shuddered, so hard I couldn't tell if it was me shaking or the rest of the world. I didn't feel any of the pain I knew I should be from his punches. I was completely numb. It was a struggle to remember how to breathe for a second, and then I couldn't stop gasping, gulping in deep breaths. I made my way to my bed and sat there, trying to get myself back under control.

The shivers started all over again when I heard something. Someone was at the window. It had to be Puck. I couldn't move to help him, even though I wanted to, but Puck didn't need any help. He jimmied the window open and slid inside, then stood near the window silently.

"How did you know which window was mine?" It was the first thing I could think of to ask.

"It's the only one with pink curtains." He came and sat next to me on the bed, keeping some space between us, which makes me relax slightly. "Are you okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes. Why?" I said, trying to be calm. Unfortunately, there's no casual way to clear your throat, so I just did it and prayed he wouldn't catch on to how upset I was.

"I can feel you shaking through the bed."

Oh. There was no way to deny that.

"And I heard somebody yelling at you. Your dad, right?"

I tried to stop shaking, but I could feel the shudders get worse. "Yeah. My dad."

"You okay?" he asked after a second, not moving closer to me. I knew his reputation, I knew how unusual this space between us was, and I was grateful.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. So are you going to explain what that was all about, back at your house?" I said, trying to change the subject.

"Oh. Yeah, um, that was my ma's boyfriend. He doesn't like it when I have people over. Sorry, I thought he'd... he usually isn't back till later." I swear I could feel him looking at me. "If it's a bad time, we can talk later. Like at school or something."

"No, no, now is fine. Why doesn't he like having people over?" At that point, I would've said anything to distract myself, because I was beginning to feel the bruises I knew were forming on my stomach.

"Cuz he hates kids. He doesn't even like me being there most of the time. So why did I come over here again? Did you want to know something?" he asked, and I noticed he sounded exhausted.

"You're the one who suggested it," I reminded him.

"Oh. Right." I could tell he didn't remember. He was being so much more chill than I'd seen before. Maybe he was tired, or worn out from dealing with his mom's boyfriend, or maybe I was making it up. I mean, I wasn't exactly acting normal, either.

"Hold on, let me turn on the light," I said, just to say something, and reached over for my bedside lamp.

"No!" Puck said loudly, leaning over and grabbing my wrist – the same one Dad had held onto. I felt my skin sear white-hot with pain, and I jerked away, inadvertently switching on the light anyways.

Instantly, I understood why he didn't want the light on; one side of Puck's face was swollen and red, beginning to bruise, his one eye nearly shut, his lip bloody. "What happened to you?" I whispered, right as he asked me,

"Were you crying?"

We both didn't say anything for a second. "No," I answered. "Well, kind of. What happened to you?"

"Fight club. You should see the other guy," he told me, touching a couple fingers to his eyebrow. I nodded, rubbing my wrist, trying to even out how my hand felt cold and my wrist hot. It was sore no matter what I did, the skin raw and deep red. "Shit, did I do that?" he asked, pointing at my wrist.

"No. It wasn't you."

"Well, who was it? I'll kick their ass," he said fiercely.

For a second, I let myself picture Puck punching Dad in the face, and then I rebuked myself and made those thoughts go away. "Just drop it, Puck," I said quietly. "I'm okay."

"The hell you are," he said, looking at me intently with his one good eye.

He was right, more right than he knew. "Really. Don't worry about it. It's not worth it." I wasn't worth it, having him get so worried and protective.

"Fine," he said, exasperated. The two of us just sat there for a minute in silence. Then, slowly and steadily, he reached out and took my hand gently. He ran his thumb over the marks on my wrist. "So you wanna get with Finn?" he said. "I can make that happen. If you want."

I almost got angry at him when it occurred to me that he might've just been trying to be kind to me in the only way he could think of. "Sure," I tried to smile. "Thanks."

"Yeah. So do you need anything else, or should I go?"

"Uh, no. I'm good." I looked at the clock – it was nearly midnight. "You can go."

"Are you sure? You're still shaking."

His worry was so endearing. I almost wanted to tell him how sweet I thought he was, but I knew he'd just be insulted. So I didn't say anything, and just looked down at the floor. I was taken by surprise when he leaned over and hugged me. "Whatever you say, Q," he said into my shoulder. "But you're sure you don't want me to stay?" he asked for the second time. "We don't have to talk. Or make out," he added, almost smiling.

Something appealed to me about imagining him staying, holding me, telling me I was beautiful, like he had that afternoon. Maybe if he said it enough, I'd believe him. I knew, though, deep down, that he could never say it enough.

He interpreted my silence for himself, and held me tighter, scooting closer on the bed. "Here," he said, and moved me and him around on the bed so he was leaning against the headboard and I was leaning against him. "Go to sleep," he told me. I heard the words vibrate in his chest. "I'll be outta here before anybody gets up. Just sleep."

I let myself relax into him. It was oddly soothing to feel his muscles against my back, to rise and fall slightly with each breath he took. He pulled my flowered covers over both of us, then put his arms around my waist, holding me close enough to feel secure, but not so tightly that my claustrophobia kicked in, almost like he knew about it. As my shaking slowed down and my heartbeat evened out, I became aware of his heartbeat, stead and regular. "Why are you doing this?" I asked him, and noticed I could talk without my voice shaking. "You don't even know me."

"Because you're not fine. And the least I can do is hold you for a couple hours. Q, go to sleep," he said quietly, and he kissed the top of my head.

That was the first moment when I let myself think I might love him.

It wouldn't be the last.


	4. SANTANA August, 2007

Santana Lopez doesn't have morals. Everybody knows that; it's what makes me so dangerous. I understand wrong and right, I just don't care. All that matters to me is myself, and making sure I'm okay. Over time, that has come to mean making sure Brittany's fine, too, because for some reason when she's sad, I get pissed. Other than that, though, I look out for number one.

And then there's Quinn Fabray.

Everyone always assumes we've been some kind of best friends for something approaching forever. In reality, we met about a year ago, when Quinn came to McKinley from Bellville. She'd taken over as head Cheerio without even an audition, a fact that royally pissed me off. All of my considerable bitch talents were immediately devoted to kicking that blonde angelic slut off the top of the cheer pyramid.

But Quinn wouldn't fall. She did what no other girl ever had. She fought back. Successfully. Right as my brilliant plot to get Quinn declared the school slut was beginning to sweep the school, that little tramp joined the Celibacy Club, rising through the ranks to become president almost overnight. She even managed to launch a counter-campaign of pregnancy rumors that I barely caught before things got out of hand. And on top of all of that, I saw her hanging all over Noah Puckerman a couple days ago, when everybody knows that fine piece of man is completely and totally mine. What a bitch, right?

Finally, I decided to take the mountain to Mohammed. I stole Papa's car and showed up to Quinn's fancy expensive house, surrounded by its immaculate manicured lawns, which only made me more sure I'd slam that rich girl's face in. I parked directly in the middle of the driveway, right behind that stupid Jaguar Quinn's daddy bought her for her fifteenth-and-a-half birthday, left my car door open, and stormed straight up to the front door.

The doorbell sounded irritatingly like heavenly chimes. Somehow, I maintained my civil glare as she waited. Finally, Quinn answered the door, looking angelic as usual in a virginal white sundress, her hair perfectly blonde, her face sweet and all-American. Looking at her, it was easy to see why she was head Cheerio, which was only further maddening.

I started out strong. "Listen, Fabray, you skanky little bitch. I hope you're ready to feel those pearly white teeth slam into the back of your skull, because that is exactly what I'm about to make happen." Quinn tried to say something, but I cut her off. "Unless you're willing to give me back my spot at the top of that pyramid. In which case, I'll agree to a truce for a while."

"I don't think that's going to happen," Quinn said, working up some bitchiness. "Get off my property."

"Make me, pendejo."

I fully expected a fight. I wanted one, actually. A good, old-fashioned barroom brawl – not in a bar, though, since we were wildly underage – would get out all of that unseemly aggression and then we'd be ready to be all fake-happy after that. But one look at Quinn now, and I could tell I wasn't going to get that satisfaction. The squeaky-clean slut was pulling the innocent and delicate act, pretending to be too scared to fight it out. We stared at each other for nearly a minute until I said, "You gonna do something or what?"

Blondie raised one eyebrow and looked prepared to deliver a scathingly proper tirade, but before she could, there was a shout from inside, a deep voice that was hard to understand. The man was yelling at Quinn – her name was one of the few things that I could make out – and the dude was totally smashed. Both of these things were obvious; I'd heard drunk people nearly constantly outside my house back in Lima Heights Adjacent.

Quinn didn't respond for almost an eternity. She suddenly wouldn't meet my eyes and didn't even move, frozen like a rabbit under the eyes of a wolf. Granted, that made me a wolf, and I was okay with that, but still, she looked helpless and terrified. Then she cleared her throat and turned, closing the door most of the way but not completely. More pissed off than ever before, I crossed my arms and stood there.

I knew I shouldn't even be thinking of opening the door and storming in there to bust shit up, but I was. And after about two minutes, I'd had enough. I'd have my justice one way or another, even if it had to be in front of Quinn's Bible-thumping parents. I stormed inside, shoving open the door and taking a total of three steps before realizing the house was totally big enough to get lost in.

I decided to follow the noise. There was shit going down somewhere in this house, trouble in Paradise. For a brief second, I was tempted to be scared. Then I snorted at myself and walked straight towards it.

The yelling and slamming and breaking of things was better than a compass. Following it, I made my way to the door of a grand room with wood paneling and expensive-looking décor that would've officially set me on fire with rage if I'd had the chance to take it all in. I caught a glimpse of a red-faced man, plush red carpet - but Princess was in the way, walking straight into me. Bitch wasn't even looking where she was going.

"No, you just didn't," I said, holding up my finger in her face. But I couldn't finish that statement, because she looked completely strange. Her huge baby deer eyes were bigger and wetter than usual, her face was all flushed, and her lip was split. That had definitely not been bleeding when we were talking at the door.

I opened my mouth to say something about it, but Quinn hesitantly put her hand on my shoulder, trying to turn me around and push me out. That didn't fly. I pushed away, glaring at her, and tried to talk again, but she stopped me again – AGAIN. "Please," she whispered, practically begging. Even after only three weeks, I knew Quinn Fabray didn't beg.

Reluctantly, I let her lead me out of the room and close the door. I restrained myself until then, but as soon as that door was shut, I burst out, "What the hell is going on, Bambi?"

"Nothing. Just leave." Apparently, she couldn't even work up a tone other than weak helplessness. Weird. That's not how things go between Head Bitches In Charge like us. We snark. We bitch. Occasionally, we pull hair or throw punches. Never are we weak.

Luckily, I had enough bitch for the both of us in reserve. "No, I don't think I will. I think you're going to tell me why I shouldn't kick your ass right now, before I do it in this hallway," I said, pushing her away. "I've had enough of the shy little church girl act. Do you have the balls or don't you?"

Quinn didn't answer, which gave me an uncomfortable amount of time to look at her and her bleeding lip. If I were the sensitive type, I'd use the time to start to wonder about the red mark on her arm, or the man I saw in the room with her. I mean, obviously, he was her dad, right? And I'm pretty sure he had a half-full bottle of whiskey on the table next to him. If I were the sort of person to overanalyze things, I'd probably start my analysis there. Or maybe I'd start with the scabs on her knees that her dress barely hides, deep red and recent. Yeah, I'd probably start there. Except I'm not any of those types, so I definitely don't think about any of those things.

"Any other time," she said softly. "But I can't right now. I can't. I'm sorry," she added at the end, grudgingly.

"Don't tell me about how damn sorry you are. Either fight me or give up on the spot you stole from me? Do you understand?" I was kind of hoping this would shock Quinn out of this strange sentimental tearful bullshit she was pulling, but it didn't work. It just made her cry, actual tears that sparkled like something out of a Goddamn fairy tale. "Listen," she said, trying and failing to pull herself together. "I can't do this. I don't care if you try to take your position back. I'll take it from you again anyways. But I can't fight with you right now." She mustered up a tight smile, turned, and walked away.

"Oh no." I followed her up a grand, curving staircase. "No, I'm not going to wait around and-" I reached out to grab Quinn's arm, got a handful of mauve cardigan, and pulled hard, exposing the usurper's perfect porcelain shoulders.

Except that they weren't perfect and porcelain. They were purple and red, bruised and swollen, the welts disappearing under the back of her dress.

We were frozen in shock for a moment, then Quinn hissed, "If you even breathe a word about this, then I'll tell everyone about that crush you have on that idiot, Brittany. Got it?" With great dignity, she pulled the cardigan back over her shoulders.

Those were words I could respect. Blackmail was always a safe bet. "Fine," I said. "And while we're trading secrets, tell me what the hell happened."

Quinn snorted with impressive snobbery. "If you're not smart enough to figure it out, I'm not going to fill you in." She pulled away and stomped up the rest of the stairs.

"No, no, no, wait." I hurried after her. "Quinn, you're not allowed to just walk away from this. Look at me. HEY! Look at me!" Reluctantly, Quinn turned around and heaved a deep, exasperated sigh. "Listen," I said determinedly. "You're new around here, so I'm going to lay things out for you. I may be a bitch, but I'm not a snitch. I'm not telling anyone what I've seen in here. But before I don't tell people, I need to know what I'm not telling them. Comprende?" I put on my best bitch face and tried to intimidate her into talking, because now, despite myself, I really wanted to know. Of course, I had an idea, but jumping to conclusions didn't seem classy right now.

Quinn met my stare for a while, then glanced down and seemed to slump. "Not here," she said, with a nervous glance back down the stairs. She walked away without another word, forcing me to follow her in a passive-aggressive move so brilliant I had to be impressed. There was a reason she was so successful as a head bitch.

We went into Quinn's bedroom, where she shut the door, then stood with her back to it. "What do you want to know?" she asked, resigned.

"What the hell happened to your back?" I demanded.

"I was bad," she said almost inaudibly. "And my father was drunk, so he was a little harsh when it came to my punishment. Alright? And if anyone else finds out, I'll ruin you," she threatened, adjusting her cardigan so it was straight and perfect again.

"And your lip? Your knees?" My tone would broker no shit. I waited, arms crossed, while Quinn licked her lips, looked down at her knees, and stammered through an unintelligible response. Finally, she came up with an answer.

"I fell. Can you leave me alone now?" Her tone was intended to be curt, but it just came off scared, and tired, and I suddenly felt kind of sorry for this new girl and her perfect house and expensive car.

"No," I decided, abruptly went to her neat bedside table, grabbed a handful of tissues, and sat on her floral bedspread. "Sit down," I ordered impatiently when Quinn did nothing. Once she sat, I moved a little closer and dabbed at the blood on her pale chin and lips as gently as I knew how. "What, so you fell on your face?" I said to break the silence. Quinn didn't answer – she just rubbed her eyes, suspiciously silent.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked when her face was clean. "I stole your spot. You came here to fight me for it, right?"

"Oh, I'm still going to fight you," I said coldly. "I'm going to slam you to the ground repeatedly. Especially your pretty little knees, princess. Yeah. They'll be bleeding and gross, and when everybody asks you 'Quinn, what happened to your knees?' you tell them Santana did it. Got it?"

Quinn, who looked first looked scared, then shocked when she realized what I was trying to say, opened her mouth but nothing came out. "What?"

"Yep. I'm not giving up my reputation in Lima Heights Adjacent. It'll be first thing in the morning, be ready." I threw away the bloody tissues, looked her up and down, and said, "I don't know if I can do anything about your back, though."

"Oh."

"But I might be able to figure something out. Y'know, if I saw what it really looked like," I added slyly.

Quinn looked at me steadily for a moment, then nodded quickly, like she was scared she'd change her mind. "Okay," she said in a tight voice. It wasn't until I walked closer to her that it was clear how badly she was shaking; it took her three tries to unbutton her cardigan. I tried to gentle as I helped her slip it over her shoulders, but she still cringed. And I felt strange again when I saw her shoulders. It was almost like I was angry, more than anything else, but a cold, soft kind of anger that was weird as hell.

Quinn had me unzip her dress. I did it slowly, not looking, because even though I knew what I was going to see and that it was going to suck, the only thing worse than seeing it would be seeing it gradually. I pulled apart the two sides of her unzipped dress, told myself to sack up, and looked.

Jesus Christ. From her neck to her hips, she was covered in bruises and welts, the colors dark against her pale skin. I hadn't seen anyone beaten this badly since my older brother got jumped by some cholos a few streets over. Even then, it was different. He was a little punk himself. But Quinn, even she wasn't capable of doing something that deserved this. Nobody was. "Holy shit." I let the words escape from my lips accidentally. "I can't cover for this," I told Quinn's back.

"I figured." She sounded resigned.

"And you showed me anyways?"

She doesn't answer that question, reaching back to painfully zip back up her dress. "So are you satisfied now? Are you done? Do you have your blackmail information now?" she said bitterly.

"I won't blackmail you about this." I shook my head determinedly. Again, no morals, but some things are no-brainers. "I will never. This will stay here – all of this. This is off-limits, okay? I promise."

"Thanks. I appreciate it." The words sounded foreign on her lips.

I nodded absently, but my mind was somewhere else, because a crazy thought had just occurred to me and I was doing my best to talk myself out of it. She was my rival. I hated everything about her when I walked up to her front door ten minutes ago. But this idea would not go away, because I knew, personally, I wouldn't feel good about myself if I just left her here in this house. Still trying to ignore it, I said, "Why don't you get in bed and stay there for about a week. Don't go to school. We can have our fight off of school grounds."

"I can't, my dad would kill me," Quinn shook her head. "And my mom. I don't get sick. I'm supposed to be perfect. Not that I've ever been very good at that," she finished cynically.

And for some reason, I couldn't just stand there and let that girl with her bloodstained back stand there and keep up the charade. "Hey," I said, rolling my eyes. "Pack a bag for a couple days. Come stay at my house. Nobody in Lima Heights Adjacent will give you any shit, none of them care. And my mom will just think I like blonde girls. Come on."

She was torn, I could see it in her eyes. "I can't," she said. "They'd wonder where I was, and if they found out I didn't go to school-"

"We'll call you in sick, my ma will pretend to be your mother, and they won't find out. Just tell them it's a sleepover or something. Come on, just do it." I didn't know why I was doing this. Did I really want her at my house that badly? She'd be in the perfect position to find my weaknesses and exploit them. But still, I couldn't leave her here. I'd feel like absolute shit about myself, because that was one immoral action even I couldn't rationalize away. "Look," I said to her. "You can't honestly tell me you want to stay here all by yourself with Drunk-pants Fabray."

Quinn smiled shyly, tucked her hair behind her ear, and she hunched her battered shoulders. But before she could answer, there was another shout from downstairs, then again, closer. I saw Quinn shrink in on herself, trying not to be terrified but very obviously not succeeding, and I had to take action.

Annoyed with myself, I walked to the bedroom door, opened it, and calmly faced down the man coming up the stairs. Rationally, I knew he wasn't necessarily going to hurt Quinn again. I also knew it definitely wasn't my place to step into this situation; I'd met this girl a few weeks ago when school started, knew next to nothing about her, and actually showed up here despising her. But nothing in me would let myself stand by and watch. Maybe it was my hot and sexy Latina blood. Maybe it was some of that compassion stuff that people keep telling me I don't have. Regardless, I stood there in the doorway, crossed my arms, and said loudly, "Can I help you?"

"Where's Quinn," the man slurred. He barely cleared the top step and staggered into the hallway.

"She's busy. What do you want?" I said coldly.

"Tell 'er…." The sentence degraded into gibberish.

"I'm sorry. No wait – I'm not. I couldn't understand a word you said. Maybe you should give enunciation a try. In the meantime, get out of here. Leave. Go to bed and sleep off the hundreds of dollars you just ingested," I told him sharply.

"Don' talka me li' dat," he mumbled, obstinately angry. And he was getting closer to me. For a second, I registered just how much bigger than me he is, and then I firmly told myself that I could waste him and I stood my ground.

"Excuse me?" I said indignantly.

"Santana, don't," Quinn spoke up from behind me, but she didn't move from where she was, frozen against the wall in fear.

So I ignored her. "I will not be spoken to like that, and in the state you're currently in, I could demolish you. You don't scare me. And I'm not going to let you scare anyone else today. So just go to bed and sleep it off, right now. Sir," I tacked onto the end, because I wasn't going to do anything to majorly piss him off. I tried to make it more of an intimidatingly firm speech, as opposed to an angry rampage, and I guess it worked. He stumbled away, leaving only the scent of his stale gin. And then I turned back to Quinn, who had the leftovers of her terror on her face but overall looked impressed. Good. She should've been, after I just stared down the most respected man in our county for her. "So are we going to go, or what?" I said to her.

"Give me five minutes," Quinn said with a nervous smile. She pulled out a Vera Bradley tote bag from underneath her bed and began to pack it with the most expensive sweats I'd ever seen. And although part of me was really pissed about that and definitely not looking forward to spending so much quality time with her, a much bigger part was happy I could do something for her. Not that I'd ever admit that. Her being at my house would be the perfect way to secure my spot as second in command, anyway. She'd be head Cheerio, I couldn't deny it. So I decided to accept it. Really, it was a win-win.

"Santana." Quinn's angelic voice shocked me out of my thoughts. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Really, don't. Bad for my rep," I said before things got too emotional. I don't do emotional.

"Okay. I won't." Quinn smiled again, and it occurred to me that I might've just made a friend.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that. It was dangerous, but I sort of wanted to like her. Obviously, we weren't always going to be on good terms. Par for the course for head bitches. We'd always be in a power struggle. But right now, we could be on each others' side, and I decided I could like that. So I did.

"C'mon, Princess Quinn. Quinncess. We're going," I said, taking Quinn's bag and hauling it over my shoulder. Gingerly, I put my other arm around her shoulder and guided her outside.

"You can drive?" Quinn asked when she saw my dad's car.

"Yeah."

"How do you have your license?"

"Oh. I don't. Get in."

And although she looked slightly scandalized, her Royal Blonde-ness was happy to get out of here, I could see it. So she got in the car, and the two of us left behind that painfully flawless house with its frighteningly well-cared for lawns and alcohol-sodden man of the house.

Good Goddamn riddance.


	5. PUCK October, 2007

Of course I loved Quinn when we did it. She was freaking hot, for one thing, and a stone cold fox, too. Out of all the girls I've ever slept with, Quinn was the only one who I called the next day. Maybe that was because we were friends first – I think I heard that in some stupid romantic comedy I saw on a date once. Whatever. We were friends, yeah. Neither of us had any other person we could count on to understand like we understood each other. I had Finn, Quinn kind of had Santana, but neither of them were good enough all the time. Quinn was special to me, as stupid and cliché as that sounds. I don't know how to say it, I just know how it felt.

First of all, I never slept with her, except for that one damn time. I won't pretend it was about some stupid boyish devotion to Finn, because he didn't really ever come into the equation with me and Quinn. I mean, I knew she was dating him, and I knew that the two of them thought they were in love sometimes. But with just the two of us, there was never anyone else involved. It was the two of us, and that was enough. That was completely different than any other girl I'd ever known.

Second, what other girl would let me show up at her house when I felt like I was bothering Finn and his mom too much? Just Quinn. I'd climb up the side of her house, slip inside, and get in bed with her. It didn't matter how late it got, she wouldn't try to kick me out. She wouldn't say anything about the newest batch of bruises Ma's latest boy toy gave me. I wouldn't say anything if I saw her dad come in and beat the shit out of her. We'd just lie there in her bed together.

I mean, the first couple times I came in, she tried to be worried and ask questions. "What happened to your eye?" she'd say, or "Why are you limping?"

"Fight club," I'd tell her each time, and never anything more. So she let me have my secrets, and I tried to do the same.

It was tough, though. I remember wanting to punch the snot out of her bastard of a father the first time I saw him hit her. No one who calls himself a man would ever do that. All I wanted to do was beat some sense back into him, but Quinn freaked out. I guess she had a point – he might've ended up taking out how angry I made him on her, and I wasn't going to let that happen. Besides, she told me she was okay.

So we never asked any questions. I'd lift up her blankets, and she'd wake up enough to move over. Then I'd slide in and lie next to her. If she wasn't hurt too bad, I'd pull her back right next to me, so we could hear each other's heartbeats. If you wanna get all sentimental or whatever, we were both just lonely, I guess. I sure as hell was. On those nights, all I wanted was someone next to me when I went to bed, to remind me that I wasn't as much of a royal fuckup as everybody said I was.

But one of those nights, she broke the tradition. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asked after I closed the window.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about it," I told her, trying not to limp when I walked to her bed. "Just go back to sleep."

"You're limping. And I can smell alcohol on you – have you been drinking?"

"What? No. Dave was, it must've spilled." If spilled meant 'got smashed on my shoulder', then yeah, it definitely spilled.

"Puck, you should change," she sleepily insisted, sitting halfway up.

"Into what?"

"You left some of your clothes here, I think. Or maybe you put them in my bag at the football game, I can't remember. In my bag, by my desk," she said after thinking for a second.

I carefully walked to her desk, and I think I made it in a pretty normal fashion. But then I had to kneel down, and that definitely wasn't happening, I could feel it in my ankle. I almost made it, but then my ankle stopped supporting my weight, and I fell.

"Oh my gosh, Puck!" She turned on the light by her bed and came over to me, then knelt next to me and put her hand on my back. "What just happened? You're not okay. Did your ankle just give out?"

"Yeah. I mean, no," I quickly corrected myself, hoping she'd forget what I'd said right before that. Clearly, she didn't, because she looked at me, horrified. "Football injury," I claimed, trying to cover my tracks.

"I was at your game. I've been at all of them, and you didn't get hurt in any."

Damn it. "I meant it was at practice."

"If I ask the trainer, will she know what you're talking about?"

Sometimes, I really hated how much of an ingenious bitch she was. "No. because I didn't go to the trainer," I said, although I felt creepily like I was digging myself deeper into quicksand, or maybe a deep hole. One of the two.

"Funny," she observed. "If you can't walk on your ankle, I'm pretty sure Coach Ken has you go to the trainer."

How the hell did she even know that? I didn't even try to argue with her anymore. "How do you know that?" I demanded.

Quinn smiled. "I guess I've just picked it up from Finn. So what really happened to your ankle?"

"Fight club," I said after a second. Although on second thought, maybe I sounded too nervous for it to be actually believable.

I don't know why I ever tried to lie to her. "Let me see it," she said patiently. I kicked off my shoe, pulled off my socks, and lifted up the bottom of my jeans. "Oh my gosh," she whispered. I guess it did look kind of nasty, all purple and bloody and shit. "Is it broken?" she asked.

"Nah, just sprained, but it hurts like a bitch. But I'm fine," I said quickly, because I didn't want her to get worried. "Can we just sleep now?"

"No. What else is hurt?"

Even if I couldn't lie to her, I could still try to protect her. "Nothing," I claimed. She gave me a look. "Nothing major." Another look. "Okay, so my shoulder's bleeding and if I were anyone else, I'd probably have a confession. No… concussion. I mean concussion." Privately, I realized I actually probably did have a concussion, but at least it wasn't that bad, I mean, I could still see straight.

"Let me see your shoulder," Quinn said gently. She helped me take off my jacket and then my shirt, and I could see she was trying not to be freaked out by how much blood was soaked into it.

"Is it bad?" I asked her, since I couldn't really see it for myself.

"Yeah." She held a hand mirror up so I could see. It kind of looked like a mouth, a huge red mouth that wrapped around onto my chest. And it was bleeding a lot.

"Whoa. Can you… do something about that?" I said awkwardly.

"Of course," she smiled, briefly rubbed my mohawk, and went to get something from her bathroom. She came back with a huge first-aid kit. First, she cleaned off all the blood, then said, "You should get stitches."

"Nope. Don't even think about it. I'll leave if you try to make me go."

She sighed. "Fine." She used lots of gauze and surgical tape, and eventually got it covered and mostly held together. It didn't even hurt as much. Then she snuck downstairs and got two ice packs. "Get in my bed," she told me.

It was kind of a relief to be able to limp to her bed, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Right before I let myself collapse onto her bed, I remembered I still had my gross, somewhat blood and beer-stained pants on. "Give me my other pair of pants." She tossed my sweatpants to me. Getting my jeans off was no big deal, but putting my other pair of pants back on was a huge pain in the ass – or, ankle, I guess. Eventually, though, I did it and finally could lie down. Quinn cleaned up all the shit from taking care of me, then came and got into bed next to me. She put the ice packs on and under my ankle, leaned her head against my chest, and put my arm around her, then patted my leg gingerly. "I hope you feel better," she told me.

"Thanks."

"Of course. So what really happened?" she asked.

I was dreading that question, because I didn't know how to answer. "I told you. fight club," I tried to say again.

"Puck, I know there's no fight club."

"Dang it. Who told you?" I sighed.

"Finn. He mentioned it accidentally one time."

"He's such an idiot."

"Hey, watch out. He's my idiot. So what was it?"

"Q, you really don't need to worry about it," I said, trying to both pretend it wasn't a big deal and make her believe me. "I'm fine."

She sighed deeply. "Puck, I don't know why you think I'd fall for that. You know, I think I'm actually offended."

I didn't want that to happen. "Sorry. Don't be mad," I said quickly.

"Then don't lie to me."

Shit. I should've seen that coming. "Can't you not be mad at me and let me lie to you at the same time? Why can't that work?"

She thought for a second. "Because I care about if you're hurt, and I want to know if I can do something to help you," she said, sounding somewhat embarrassed.

That might've been the only answer I couldn't blow off, and I had to wonder if she'd known that all along. "Yeah. Well. Okay, then."

"Was it Finn? Did you two get in a fight? I know you do sometimes."

"Yeah, but never like this, don't get mad at him," I said quickly. "He's a good guy, he'd never do something like this."

"Okay. Why are you so worried about my opinion of him?" she said, twisting her head to look at me curiously.

"You love him, don't you? I'm not going to ruin that."

"Well, thanks. But that doesn't get you out of answering how this happened."

Again, shit. "Are you sure you want to know?" I asked that question and then realized it was stupid as it left my lips. "Never mind, I know you do. But I don't want to tell you." I mean, I think that was obvious to her from the beginning. I don't know why I thought saying it out loud would change things.

"Just tell me. You'll feel better about it," she said wisely.

I guess it was worth a shot. Nothing else could really make me feel any better about my life right now. "Mom's new man," I told her shortly. "He got kind of hammered tonight."

"And he hit you?" She sound shocked.

"Don't sound so surprised," I scoffed. "You're not stupid. And you might be the one person in world who would understand. With the…"

I didn't finish that sentence, and I didn't need to. "Right," she said quickly. "Okay. What are you going to do about it?"

"Are you kidding me? Nothing. I'm not going to do anything. He'll leave in about three weeks and everything will be fine. I told you not to worry, I'll be fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. I won't say anything. Feel better, honey," she added hesitantly.

"Thanks. And thanks for doing… all of this. For me."

"Of course," she said and turned off the light. "Well," she said after a second, "I mean, you do nice things for me, too," she said softly.

"Yeah? Like what? I just come and sleep in your bed."

"True. But maybe I sometimes… need that," she admitted hesitantly.

"What? Why? I mean, not to be a complete dumbass, but I'm not getting it."

Quinn didn't say anything, so I though maybe she was going to just not answer, but then she said, "You make me feel safe."

"Oh." What the hell was I supposed to say to that? I decided not to say anything, and just held on to her. I put both my arms around her, feeling the tug in my shoulder, and kept her close to me. For some reason while she was here, I kind of felt safe, too. Although I never really thought I felt unsafe before, Quinn in my arms made me feel completely secure.

I didn't know what to call my feelings towards her. I wasn't sure, but I was pretty sure I didn't love her. I didn't love anybody. But I didn't want to have sex with her, either. I mean, I did, I totally did, but not more than I wanted to be lying right here with her with all our clothes on, about to fall asleep. It was really weird. This had never happened before. Either a girl was hot or she wasn't – there was no platonic middle ground. With Quinn, though, there was, and so I loved her, I think. Like the best sister ever, or Finn with boobs.

She fit with me.

And I loved her.


End file.
